"preoccupation" poems
sometimes it’s not the world that is loud,
there’s no rain, no grey cloud,
sometimes it’s a storm inside of me,
where the wind is strong,
like a very cold breeze.
sometimes it’s the rain in my soul,
pouring emotions, telling me to let go,
sometimes it’s not the
outside world,
that is loud,
it’s my inner peace
that whirls around and
has been gathering war clouds
because sometimes
there’s too much stress,
to many thoughts, an excess
it’s not life’s best part
but sometimes
there’s a storm in my heart.
there are lightning’s, even thunder,
and I feel like I’m going under
but I better calm down,
there’s no need for me to drown.
I pick myself up, piece by piece
it’s not a fight without cease
there’s no need for preoccupation,
as long as I am, my own salvation.
- gio
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 1:07 PM UTC
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
When A Man Loves A Woman, He Will.
Let us end this weekend by talking about the love between a man and a woman. To the ladies who often ask, “How do I truly know a man loves me?” this is for you. When a man loves a woman, he will never cheat on her. Never! He will find other women that throw themselves at him repulsive, however beautiful, they might be. That does not mean he has to profess a zillion times in a day how much he loves you. A man who does that is often a player.
Talk is cheap. To a man who loves, actions speak louder than thunder, even in his subtlety! If you are an intuitive woman, you will know how much you are loved without even hearing the “three magical words.” There will be love in the way he looks in those lovely eyes of yours, in the way he holds your hands, in the tenderness of his text messages, in the attention he gives you, and in the care he takes in choosing the gifts he give you, and in the way he speaks to you.
It is widely acknowledged that men love *** If a man says he does not love *** he is a shameless liar or a capon. God, we love *** Yet, paradoxically, when a man truly loves a woman, *** with her is the last thing on his mind. His interest in her is holistic, not just the apple she has to offer. He wants you for the rest of his life, and his single preoccupation from the moment he meets you, will be to put a ring on your finger so you can carry his name as Mrs…(Insert your man’s name) as a badge of honour.
A man who truly loves you knows you meticulously. He knows what puts a smile on those rosy lips of yours. He knows what to say and what to do both in the good and bad times. He knows your kind of music or your kind of book. If you are a chocolate lady, he knows your kind of chocolate, if you are the romantic type he knows when to take you for moonlight strolls. Basically he will love you like you have never been loved before.
In all, a man who loves you will do anything. I mean ANYTHING for the woman he loves.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 7:52 AM UTC
***** given
Uncovered - Hidden
Under hand, under night
Through the covers your eyes
Reflecting the moon and dilate.
A dusting of rain, a romantic patter
Fingers walking your *******
Outside and inside we exist as weather
Breath of wind running with sweat.
Like the rain tracing our window
We drip our salty drips;
No secrets, preoccupation - Only
Temptation to exist -
Let me know when you're ready,
Ready to let go.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
I’ve summed up the equation for my isolation
It's People who look up, look down, left and right
Desperate for information
We never looked inside for much needed inspiration
Instead,
We lead a life of impulsive behavior mixed with preoccupation for our own reputation
I've lost toleration for the weak minded population
Individual thoughts slowly decay and eventually cut off circulation
Sending thoughts on permanent vacation, worthy of respiration, ideas now suffer suffocation
If this is my "generation"
I’d rather live in hibernation
You can take this as retaliation
I just don’t understand why we seek gratification for having no imagination?
I swear,
It’s like the world around me is nothing more Than telecommunication
Different voices yet the same conversation
Broad interpretation leaves room for destructive **********
Shedding uniqueness for trendy consolidation
**Who the **** do you think you are? a star?**
You're no constellation
You expel no illumination
Your personality is a narrow cultivation of
Seedy corporation,
Media publication,
And lack of moral stabilization
Let me give you clarification
Meditation is my detonation
Put words in your mouth before you die of starvation
We all have a fixation on giving into temptation
Putting ourselves in situations were
Passion is stimulation,
Trust is manipulation and
Love is ***********
Pour out your heartache in perspiration
After *********** we expect a standing ovation
*** is nothing more than sensation*
....are we lost beyond the point of navigation?
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 12:35 AM UTC
I have a confession
It's called an obsession.
A preoccupation
With my aggression
I feel it building
Like Lego for adults
Doctors say it's part
and parcel of my
Depression.
If that's the case then
All serial killers
and not nice people
are just depressed.
Not obsessed with hurt
or pain or emotion.
Just a little down
Take a pill
Chill.
Don't ****
Don't obsess
You're just depressed.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
The world is full of hatred and spite,
It may come as a surprise
Oh innocent youth,
But allow me to reprise,
The world is full of hatred and spite.
Oh innocent youth,
Change it, we must,
In the way we see fit.
Take charge of the reigns,
And demolish the parts
causing the most pain.
Ignorance and Arrogance
Are the Gods of the day,
Lack of wanting or caring
For the power of knowledge,
Content to be slaves,
Lost in their ways.
Oh tainted youth,
How far will this path take us?
Destroying our home, our friendships, our lives,
Our bodies, our minds, our dreams,
Crushed and broken,
Until nothing is left,
Nothing except subservient beings.
Oh enraged youth,
How do we change the events
set into motion,
Call me a radical but I have such a notion.
Seek knowledge, peace,
Love, and understanding.
In these virtues you will find
The mind’s true elation,
Then, and only then,
Will you break free
From the grip of preoccupation.
Oh enlightened youth,
When and how will our voices be heard?
Whenever it is, we break ranks from the herd.
It will require us all,
Brothers, sisters, blacks, and whites,
No group left uncalled,
For fear that upon deaf ears
our efforts should fall,
Oh empowered youth,
With these tools we must fashion,
Our revolution of choice,
With chests out and heads high,
We will make sure they hear,
Our unified voice.
For without the power of us,
There will be no change,
But the power of us
Is a force to reckon,
Yet we must keep our path straight,
And let it not derange.
Oh complacent youth,
I fear that change should not come,
Soon enough, or yet at all,
Unless we stand tall, and call,
For those in their hall,
To Bring Down their Wall.
When we treat all equal,
With love and respect,
We will have won.
But what do you expect?
Oh innocent youth,
This will not happen, it cannot happen,
The world is filled with Hatred and Spite,
And I fear we will gaze eternally,
At our cause, fading,
Into that great twilight.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
do we know whose bold hand proffered the apple?
both languished in paradise, wander and eat,
making love their primary preoccupation...
do we know who named the animals,
the trees and birds and flowers?
when stewardship became dominion..
do we know what knowledge means?
recognizing your ****** seems a small price
to pay for the world of emotion -
lust's sharp intensity,
the fierceness of anger
or a kiss...
do we know the humble serpent
-God's creation- was to blame?
curiosity perhaps, or boredom more likely,
ensconced in a gorgeous garden
living know-nothings
their idle exploration of Eden.
who wrote this story? who made these myths?
what is now an ossified creed was then
a nascent religion; many claiming the one Truth.
beliefs in faith-based fact flourishing -
all the debates on divinity.
the Garden, The Woman, the Snake and the Tree
this account survived, recorded and writ for ages
a myth that may never have happened..
this ancient story lives on to
confirm the sin and
rattle the soul.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:57 PM UTC
Transnational capitalism is a gluttonous preoccupation of the aristocrat. Although Simone De Beauvoir nailed her colors to the metaphorical mast of equality, it is reasonable to acknowledge that our perimeter lies beyond intra-personal vistas of gender identity and ****** preference.
The Lord of the Manor will grant entry to your greasy soul, if you embrace the common denominator of anthropological affiliation.
So, weary pilgrim, on this treacherous journey of presumed arrival: I urge you to identify that spiritual lobotomy of the majority where ontological convenience jeopardises the rich tapestry of our planet’s pulse.
Collectivism has a cosmological duality which will never be reconciled as long as parliamentary ridicule insults the intelligence of equilibrium.
Whatever happened to democracy? And, why do you simply conform to dictatorial messages which sink their teeth into the very flesh of community existence? We may not be able to alter the direction of the wind, but we can truly adjust our sails.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Preoccupation with making something permanent
A feeling of expectation
incorporation of a certain situation
or habitation into life, for good
It makes me freak out.
Desire,
for a certain thing to happen
fear of that something actually happening
Or that it's something that might be permanent.
Worry,
the attempt to find certainty
the desire to control things.
Control you, controlling me
I'm afraid you'll find my black
It will come back again.
It's like an arc weld done incorrectly
Eventually it will start to bleed
And fall apart.
But I dreamt about welding and you welding me
into something permanent
something desirable
something non-penetrable.
You had me molded against the truck and...
I don't know who you are, but you put your fire in me
So deeply it burns.
A fire that firefighters can't dissolve
Doctors can't resolve.
You're in me,
and I love you.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot
with the force of a lion after its prey
and with the lethargy of one whom had not eaten in weeks
drudging up that last ounce of strength to obtain survival
my eyelashes had mascara from the night before
and my hair was thick with day-old hairspray
hiding behind sunglasses, I shifted my weight for relief
from the flip-flops rubbing unpleasantly between my toes
keenly aware of the headache above my eyes
I got my coffee and was prepared to flee back to my den
where I could devour it, keeping a wary eye on would be thieves
as my fatigue and I walked hastily towards the exit
Life happened. To my left, sat a couple side by side
they wore the casual clothes of confidence and serenity
he sat by the fireplace, his glasses sat at the end of his nose
her body leaned close to the man she loved, and forward to see
the book that was laid open on the table in front of them
curious minds swallowed the words that were offered there
under gray hair, hands holding, faint smiles formed on their lips
I had never seen such a portrait of true contentment
outside, the image kept speaking to my brain, despite my preoccupation
and I saw you. and I saw me. in thirty years, a virtual lifetime
our aging together; maturing, evolving, creating
side by side, ever content, with books, love and coffee.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
We strode together in another age, my love,
You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses.
I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal.
You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer
Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess.
Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now.
In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication.
We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters.
We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon.
A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies.
A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire
We felt for each other.
The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then;
But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day.
Then there was just time...given and taken.
Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm.
Time in that better age...was a friend.
A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow,
A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn.
This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other.
For however many lifetimes we may live in...
We shall be one.
Marshalg
For darling Janet
12 September 2011
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
Chairs were creaking from the strain of ignorance,
as the habit of ignorant anticipation gripped the
edge of a creative moment to disrupt thoughts
which hoped to choose the pastel colors of an
expressive photograph. Rather than deep garden
saturation, the light, fading to become ghosts
of movement, offered a place of acceptance. Shrugs
rounded the shoulders of the road, so it could be
claimed that no responsibility hindered the
development of suspension systems. Political
levitation supported the dancers as they turned onto
the public stage in a forum of occupation. The state
of the street, in the absence of smooth nylon, brought
the parachutes down to flutter, disconsolately, above
the pavement. Single waves of regret were drawn
to leave the stage, but, as this effort was declined,
determination measured resolve based upon
community options, described in the local papers.
Setting the pages down, each day, the play became
enamel baked onto the restoration and the satisfaction
which kept them all together as a group. Certain
curtains were raised, as others were lowered to close
the door excluding the poor
from the equal share of space related to the experiments
of the place.
Conversation by clerks sculpted freedom to crimp the
brass cases in ways not accepted by sprites in mid
flight. These were the colors in the ledger interpreted as
shades of gray or flashing midnight blue, faint copper,
and pearly white. Forces of education were dismissed
as a superficial demonstration indicating the character,
intensive.
Thus, they were reaching for the money, but funding
remained a gift offered only to those admired and,
through the glass, profitable by cultural attributes. Some
thought the process was the singular importance of an
event. The dancers were dreaming, as they rehearsed.
Another kind of artist discarded the event in favor of the
documents and images meant to persist. These, the
dancing players favored as memories to be contemplated,
some to be cherished.
Materialism, since it included spirit, ruled the transient
existence experienced as joy. Perception brought
enjoyment into being, yet when the unusual critic walked
away, it was a dispossession. Other critics were members
of the team.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
prognosis: passive preoccupation
adulation of vacuous aversion
careless cupid, cleaving cardiac
to the closet consecrated
courtship of wedded hemlock
feasting on desolate devotion
ceremonious shedding of sacred tears
laced with lone loss
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC
This senseless self-preoccupation
sends me straight to Hell
and I can’t tell if it’s your fault or mine
it’s fine either way, I’m not sure I care at this point
I’m just tired of every piece of my life feeling so painfully out of joint
my heart conjoined with assumed opinions and criticism that even Satan would call excessive
And I push you away like you put this on me
that you expect me to be just like everybody else
or maybe that perspective veils the reality that I know I was made for more than this
******* away my time and energy worrying about if I measure up to what you expect of me
I mean, you want me to look like your firstborn son
how can I even begin to measure up to that after everything I’ve done?
or at least this is the tape I run repeatedly in my head
And in a way it’s like I dread hearing anything besides it
because if I hear a different sound
I’m bound to bigger responsibility and I’m pushed to the brink
And I find myself sinking beneath the terrible thought that you’re disappointed in me
That you find me disgusting and can’t wait to be rid of me
But while I’m making self-pity my revelry I so often fail to see the devilry of my thoughts
not catching that I’m thinking way more highly of my brokenness than I ought
and we’ve fought over this more times than I can count,
I know.
God, how many more times do you have to show me that the way I think just doesn’t work?
How many more times will you remind me I’m not loved because it’s earned?
That Jesus took on the curse that I deserved
I’ve read and heard the story a thousand times
even though I forget it at the drop of a dime
so remind me again, I don’t have to try so hard
to be the son you want and that...
you’re not nearly as far away from me as I think you are
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
Do my eyes fail me?
Is the light of the sun useless?
for though in daylight I have walked abroad
from the confined barrel I live in
away from the rats
away a while from the stray dogs
that congregate outside my hovel
that want a bit of my sack of carrots
and discarded meat
that I picked up from the market;
and though I walked often with firm steps and keen eyes
I did not see a man, a woman, a human worth their salt;
and so I walk now
(for perhaps my eyes do fail me
and the light of the sun and moon is perhaps an illusion)
and so I walk now with a lantern even in broad daylight
and still I do not see a man, a woman, a human worth their salt;
what I see are swirls of violence and greed and pettiness
and whorls of self-preoccupation and bigotry and ignorance
and narrowness
all encased in flesh and bones:
leave me Sirs and sweet-dressed and made-up Ladies
and Children corrupt in the World of Adult Fanfare;
leave me and let me go on my quest further afield
as far as the lantern will allow me
even in this bright day ruled by the sun
and ruined by you Sneering Living Beings;
leave me to wander as far to see if I cannot perhaps find a human
in some corner….a surprise as one might find
a gold coin in some dark corner….
And I so hope that today perhaps I shall find
the human this bright day
by the light of this lantern
and not like yesterday and all days before
search in vain till the lantern light dies
and crawl back to my hovel
not finding one free of these or at least sincere,
and so worthy of the name of human…
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 10:41 AM UTC
Part of me wants to hold the pain
the way I wish I could hold you
it feels more productive
than letting go.
How can I allow
the process, the universe, god
to take care of itself, when there is pain?
As if the preoccupation with the possibilities,
will protect you more than my prayers
as if the pain were a sentinel.
I hold the pain as a dagger.
Stabbing into the darkness, into the void.
Fending off invisible foe, parrying against suffering.
No one leaves life unscathed, and so I fail you.
I cannot protect you from life.
My honor is tarnished.
My love, please know,
I will be here when you are happy,
And especially when you are sad, scared, lonely.
When life bears down, and the weight is too much,
I will be here, prying apart the dimensions,
As an anchor to reality
My precious one,
You are beloved since always.
This love has always been, and always will be.
When all returns to the great silence,
This love remains eternal.
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 12:06 AM UTC
I miss being kissed
Miss the way its unexpected
strangely exquisite mundane
to know
there are lips
waiting
loving
needing
your own
Not so much for the own desire
maybe for the satisfaction
inky safe preoccupation
of proving
your existence
deliverance
and desirability
and to not be alone.
Soft skin, a subtle glance,
it is this that I miss.
She needs to be kissed.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
You are all out there
Sinning the good sins
And I'm home--
Just home--
With a sinful mind
And idle fingers,
Wishing such Lasciviousness
Upon
Myself,
Longing
For the bliss of the Forbidden.
Almost-innocent tears
(for I am not without fault)
Pass through me
In girlish stupidity.
I don't want this
Preoccupation.
I would prefer
Cognizant frolicking
In that which is Taboo.
If I cannot have peace,
I would have sin in its stead.
-LP
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
Danses-elle, en reverie
You are the spastic source of the ocean life form
Moving between your cage of ribs
To juxtapose the gray, the human decay, and the
Preoccupation of what can, who should,
What you might and come what may –
Waking up with a stranger in bed to have
Wine in the morning, starve the dismay
Evenings of making coffee and sense,
Making away with the day
La fille, danse
Pacific sway
Pas de cheval, mais actuellement
Il est le pas d’homme naturel
There are a lot of things ugly about a place
Where we chase until fall out, fall away
Into acting offstage, and we can’t get away, no no
Dance on, girl
Dans la rue des esprits anciens
And we’ll dance and we’ll dance
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 9:06 AM UTC
*What mighty importance
rests so fat on the shoulders of you
that i'm refused
the right to lay love where I want it grown?
Bonds can loosen
Loads you've carried furthest can be shared
I know Trust is earned
but it's Earnest too, when I demonstrate it purely,
Laying all my bones
at all your doors as promises and gifts
I'll even renew - if you want -
That honest vow to remember all your birthdays
to Topple on your soul
If you need the weight of someone not you.
Can we be side by side
In a blurred rush towards the singularity?
or Am I the ***
you lead to water - am I the water itself?
Don't let me place-hold
or keep the seat warm for overdue truths
There's no need
to balance each other's acts of self sabotage
Or to pretend
Either of us is any more than what we are
We both understand
That grace is to us just brightly coloured feathers.
Please let us be safe
Together, in that disappointing mess
And let me work
on Those snags of control and owning and having
Because I don't remember
how you became confection behind a window
What made me
Treat you as the best since...sliced boys
but My diet did change
I didn't want to spoil you for lesser bread
and Now a hunger
and rot collide in the vacant spaces you're yielding.
Is it an upset
to cry at your objection to my care
Or when I kick
and scream at the labels you stick to me
When you call me
callous Hysterical and paranoid to preoccupation
Incurring open fire
and pointed barbs about your ***** Mother
Who ruined you for women, love
You, who will only ever be half aware of this and that.
I'll go willingly though
on display, to be mocked in silent penance
For What else next
but to try to hold you to me
To try to sit as still
As time and light do for me when you move in my direction
and Be as hard
as your endorsement makes me.
But for all the noise
Of our collapsing walls and siege machinery
The poison
that may never fully be drawn.
You are here.
I am here.
What else are we gonna do.*
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
Let me enlighten you
To a little thing
I like to call
Emotion.
Despite the fact
You may "distrust"
these
Prior females.
they are surely
More
Preoccupied
because
Honey
Nothing
Changes a girls mind, like
****
And
Money.
Your attachment to her
Emotionally and
Colorful assumption
in thinking
She has any
Real mental
Preoccupation with you is
False.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
My mind is filled with too much of you.
Sometimes loudly at the forefront,
re-enacting happy times.
Sometimes muted at the back
waving once in a while
mischievously distracting.
Other times you hung over my dark thoughts
making me wish I have the physical you
to grab hold of, to find comfort in.
At times you are the dark thoughts,
bluntly disproving all my assumptions of us,
questioning my worthiness
mocking my confidence.
You are the overwhelming preoccupation
I want to and don’t want to let go of.
You fill up too much of my mind.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dealing with OCD
is like losing your mind,
You can be in a room
full of people, yet all alone,
Noone can ever know
when the horrible thoughts
will come and what they will be
you just feel a buzz, a hum, a drone
in your head and you try to block it out
but like Sony Xperia apps
running in the background,
they are there, infernal
consuming the bandwidth of your soul
there is a fine line between delusion and sanity
a clutching at straws, a search for help
pleas and pleas fall not on deaf ears
but endure it you must
until it runs its course
tunnelling on, pushing you to the edge
straddling the fine line buoying
bobbing, dancing, fleeting-
drowning you in its wake as you gasp and gasp
OCD is horrible and misunderstood
why it hit me, I know not-
when it came part of me, I never agreed
I just woke up arrested, paralysed
by the most unutterable thoughts...
I suspect it happened when I met
the thin woman with the one eye-
I have known no peace since then
Paranormal paranoia rules my brain
and I am mooted, glued in the vile filth
of guilt, shame, anger, helplessness-
like a generator running on fuel,
incessant the tyres do not stop burning
alone, sometimes, I ask myself
why? why me Lord?
the cup is too heavy for me to bear
and ghouls have made my mind
an open playing field and I cant break free
at times I wake up and its gone
I smile and dress up-
try to think normally, eat and sleep
but itchy insomnia rages on my skin
beads of sweat and shaking, my mouth is dry
I am afraid, frightened and I cower
OCD is crunching my life, slowly
and sadly noone knows...they just dont know
why I say 'off' things sometimes
they suppose its the preoccupation
of a busy mind, and busy I am
wallowing, silently, stewing in the prison
it seems there is no escaping this
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC